Chapter 15
One false move, I’m dead!
Baltimore, MD - January 1982
Gregory
Herzog was perhaps the greatest salesman to ever live — especially when it came
to convincing people he was a human being. He was a referral by a mutual
friend, as a potential prospect for my insurance business, along with the
warning: “Helen, the wife, is smoking hot and she’ll fuck with your head, man!”
Well that’s all he had to tell me and I was in — (someone who thinks they could play games with my head?) I scoffed. I was intrigued.
A meeting was scheduled at their rented abode in a solid,
middle class neighborhood located just beyond the Baltimore City line. Even
with the warning, I wasn’t prepared for what opened the door.
She had the most amazing head of golden hair I had ever seen
that shimmered in the evening light, as if it had been spun from a celestial
loom. The emerald hue of her eyes glistened amidst almond-shaped portals set
within a heavenly façade. Her lips were as luscious and pouty as her nipples, which
were barely constrained beneath the strained fibers of her yellow linen slip dress
with spaghetti straps. I literally stopped breathing the moment she smiled at me.
“Gregory’s on his way home,” she said lightly, and then
turned, leading me into the living room. “He should be here any moment. Come on
in and have a seat.”
(Good
lord!) I couldn’t help but notice
the swaying of her incredible ass, as she sauntered away. “Uh… very nice
place,” I said, snapping out of my lustful haze.
The living room was filled with what looked like an
assortment of hand-me-downs and faux antiques. The two most intriguing pieces —
a burgundy Victorian Campaign sofa, and an American Drew Cherry Grove coffee
table — stood out as the targets of my attention. When you have a job that
requires home visits, successful agents develop a sixth sense for the quality
of prospects possessions — the first direct indicator of personal wealth.
With married couples, the wife always had final say. So the
moment I stepped into a home, I looked for the finest piece of furniture,
artwork, or perhaps a rare collectable — anything that screams wife.
“Don’t mind the place, it’s a mess,” she said, leading me to
a fully stocked bar in the corner of the room.
“Well, when you have an amazing Victorian sofa like this
one, and an American Drew in the midst of it all, one can hardly notice
anything else,” I said, feeling rather proud of myself for spotting both pieces,
especially the coffee table.
“Ahh… so a sofa and a coffee table are the only things
you’re looking at right now,” she said, glancing back at me, with my eyes on
her ass.
(Busted!)
“Uh… I… meant,” like a fish gasping for air on dry land, my lips were flapping but nothing was
coming out.
“Hold on to that thought for a moment, Mr. Stanly. What
would you like to drink?” she asked, gently swaying as she waited for my
response.
“A drink would be fantastic!” I said, still a little
embarrassed. “What did you have in mind?”
“A glass of Chardonnay?” she offered.
“Perfect.”
After pouring the wine, she sat down with the ease of a
feline across from me; legs crossed yoga-style on the couch with a glass of
wine in hand. As she leaned back against the armrest, the hem of her dress rested
precariously between her thighs. (Oh yeah…
she’s fucking with me all right…).
“So, I hear your girlfriend is really hot? How long have you
been seeing her? What’s her name?”
Slightly taken aback, I recovered with, “Yes, she’s hot.
Five years. And Bess.”
“Bess, what a lovely name. And is she a good and loyal
mate?”
The question startled me for a moment. (She’s gotta be joking?) I thought. Then she lit a cigarette and
offered it to me.
“Smoke?”
“Uh, sure…” I stammered taking it, even though I had
recently quit.
She calmly sat back staring at me, waiting for a response.
“Good, and loyal mate, huh?”
“Yes, does she serve your needs as a man?”
Not a hint of a smile, or gesture that she was fucking with me. She was dead serious.
“My needs…?”
She lit another cigarette, took a long drag, and then
reached for an ashtray on the coffee table. The movement caused her dress to
shift, revealing a thin red slice of material, barely covering her divine
portal. Fine blond hairs radiated out from both sides of her red thong like
rays of the sun. Without the slightest effort to cover up, she simply settled
back against the armrest once more.
“Does she turn you on?”
Snapping out of my Twilight
Zone of lust, “I’m sorry… what did you say?”
She chuckled.
“I said, does she…?”
“Oh yes… I suppose she does.”
From the expression on her face, my response didn’t satisfy
her.
“I suppose…? Hmmm, I suppose you are thinking of her right
now. Is that why your cock is so hard?”
(Damn…
this chic doesn’t beat around the bush) “My
what…?”
“Why can’t you just admit your Bess doesn’t do it for you
anymore?” she continued.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that…”
“But I certainly turn you on. That bulge in your pants is
proof enough. And if it wasn’t me, it would be some other piece of ass,
wouldn’t it?”
“Wow…! Hold on! I mean, gaddamn… we just met!” I had had it.
“What the hell are you doing? Are you fucking with me?”
“Sorry, I got carried away.”
“Carried away? From the moment you opened the door you have
been working on getting my dick hard. And just because my dick is hard, doesn’t
mean I’m crazy enough to fuck you! I wouldn’t be surprised if your ol’ man was
on the doorstep peeking through the window with his dick in his hand as we speak!”
“Wow! That’s harsh!” she replied, with a slight grin. It was
clear the statement hit a nerve.
“You started it. If you want me to leave, fine. If you‘re
fucking with me — Ha, Ha, great, you got me.”
“I’m fucking with you, relax,” she said curtly, and then I
saw it. The left side of her mouth twitched ever so slightly, as she attempted
to play it off. She was hiding something under a pretty flimsy façade, and I
could have sworn it felt like the vibration fear. The lock to the front door
began to rattle.
“Speak of the Devil,” she said, casually crossing her legs.
The door opened, and in walked Gregory.
Suddenly, the energy in the room dropped, descending into
what I can only describe as a resonance of dread. My anti-matter self
immediately took flight. What I saw enter the room, with my astral eyes was a
grotesque Black monster barely hiding
beneath the façade of a human. Imagine a pitch-black silhouette — a literal
void cut right out of mid-air in the shape of a man. Then imagine it sucking
light particles from every living thing in the vicinity, including Helen.
(What the Hell have I
gotten myself into?) I thought.
On the outside, he was a handsome man with dark curly hair,
deep-set, jet black eyes, a chiseled chin, average height, athletic build, and
pale skin. He was startled by my presence. With his jaw set and a wrinkled
brow, I could feel him desperately trying to scan my light. All he got was the
resonance of my human instrument, sans emotions — sans light he could absorb.
It was then I understood why my anti-matter self had taken flight.
“What’s up, Gregory, I’m H,” I said, extending my hand.
The moment our hands touched I heard, ‘Goddamn stinking Nigger!’ telepathically. Yet on the outside he was
smiling, pretending to be genuinely pleased to meet me.
Next, an image appeared in my mind — guns, lots of them,
aiming directly at me, followed by the vision of a single gun pointing at
Gregory. With a flash, all the guns fired at once and the vision ended.
Something told me that before this adventure was over, one
of us would be dead. For a brief moment, I despaired over having to endure yet
another fucked up situation in which my life would be put on the line. I
thought of inventing an excuse to get the hell out of there, and as far away as
possible. (Your instincts are always
right!) I screamed inside my head. But there was something very familiar
with this being. Then I heard the word (wrestling)
in my mind, followed by an acute attack of nausea. The blood rushed from my
face, my knees began to buckle, and I was going down.
“H!” Helen shouted, as she sprang into action helping me
back onto the couch.
“Man, I’ve never seen a black person turn so white,” said
Gregory laughing.
“Gregory, not now!”
“Shut up, Bitch and get the man a glass of water,” he
snapped.”
END EXCERPT
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